Life in a Day
by beckyhughes
Summary: An agonizingly moment-to-moment fic depicting one ordinary Sunday in married life for Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes Carson. Post-series. Canon as much as possible. Dialogue heavy at times. A NSFW chapter later. Complete, but to be published one chapter at a time. It's a writing exercise to improve descriptions of place, time, emotion; but I'm sharing it because #Chelsie
1. First Light and Love

_Okay, here we go! They wake. A day begins. All my love to Steph for beta'ing. A few notes at the end!_

* * *

" _The scattered tea goes with the leaves_ _and every day a sunset dies."_

—William Faulkner

 **Sunday | 5:35 am**

The sun had just made its way above the horizon, casting an amber light against the side of the cottage. As it streamed in their bedroom window, Elsie turned toward its warmth still in half-sleep, the sound of a bird calling in the yard waking her sweetly.

She hummed, eyes still closed and indulged herself in a wide yawn. Her joints clicked painlessly as she arched her lower back, kicking a leg behind her. Her foot made contact with his shin and he grunted in protest.

"Sorry darling," she mumbled into her pillow, turning toward him as her eyes stretched themselves open. Facing him, she scooted over, nestling herself against his side. Even in sleep he responded, his arms embracing her and pulling her closer as if by rote. She sighed, tucking her fists under her chin. A yawn rose up in his chest but was cut short by his sputtering. Startled, she pulled her head up to look at him, now both quite awake.

"What is it?" she said, her voice hoarse with sleep.

"Your hair —" he said, reaching a hand up to wipe at his mouth, "I've just had a mouthful of it."

She pressed her lips together, turning them up into a sideways smile as she tried not to laugh.

He ran his tongue along his lower lip, touching his finger to it lightly, "I can't say I've ever had this problem before." he said, a smile tugging at his lips as his fingers plucked them, "If one considers the _source_ , it's not an entirely unpleasant problem to have."

"I'm glad of it. " she said, laying back against her pillow. After a moment he slunk back down as well, placing his hand on her warm belly as he turned toward her.

"'tis but a small price to be paid to have the privilege of seeing you with your hair let down." He pet her middle in emphasis, "You know — all these years and I'd hardly ever seen it plaited."

"I should think not," she said, "There was never a moment where it'd've been practical. I hardly wore it loose when I was a lass; farm life wasn't exactly conducive to the latest hair fashions."

"Well, _I should think not_ ," he parroted, grinning at her as he leaned down to softly kiss her lips. "It's not nearly as gray as mine."

"Are you keeping score?" she chuckled, feeling the weight of his hand against her as her body reverberated with laughter.

He smiled down at her, cocking his head to one side. Outside their window, two birds were calling out to one another across the yard.

"I love that birdsong," he said, "It sounds like they're saying _Phoe-be._ "

The sound of his high-pitched little squawk made her giggle. She listened a moment and, again, the bird outside sang.

"That's what they're called, right? — Phoebes?"

"Oh, no no!" he tutted, "That you hear out yonder window is, in fact, a Titmouse."

"I thought Titmice went. . . _chickadee-dee-dee*!"_

He shook his head and licked his lips. "Well, it's a bit like the Tit's call, but quicker. And Titmice go from one note to a lower one, but the phoebe — well, it's like this," and he pursed his lips, whistling a perfect imitation of the bird's song. Before she could speak, the birds in the yard responded in kind.

"Oh, look at that — you've made a friend."

"Must have been their mating call."

She gave him a lopsided grin and sighed, " _Cheeky_."

"Hardly! What would have been cheeky is if I'd done the mating call of the stodgy butler, roaming the halls of a grand house—"

" _His natural habitat_ —"

"Precisely — calling out for his housekeeper —"

" _Mrs. Hughes,_ " Elsie mimicked, her impression of Carson's rolling baritone rather impressive*.

Delighted, he smiled — a pleased laugh escaping him. "Quite — to which the housekeeper responds, _what is it now,_ Mr. Ca _rrrrr_ son _."_

"You've got to roll your r's a bit more."

"How? "

"Curl your tongue and vibrate along your r's — you've got to get the Scottish burr."

"Oh, oh." he said, "Of course — without it the wild butler is not liable to respond."

She snorted, " _Rrr_ ight you are, Mr. Ca _rrrr_ son _."_

"I love that, you know."

"What's that?"

"Your _accent_ — I suspect either it's relaxed because you've been away from Scotland all these years, or perhaps you felt as though you needed to dampen it when you took the job at Downton — but I rather like it."

"Well, thank you." she said, reaching up to stroke his cheek, "I think it was a bit of both."

"Both?"

"Well — I've been in England long enough. After a while you just don't hear it anymore, I suppose your mind just forgets. In some ways, though, I think I tried to ease off it a bit. Make my words clearer. A housekeeper must never be misunderstood, you see."

He grunted in acknowledgement, "Do you suppose if you were to go back to Scotland your accent would grow thicker?"

"Maybe after a few days," she said, stifling a yawn, "Occasionally Dr. Clarkson can inspire a bit of a drawl in me."

The chirping of the birds in their yard had quieted, and other than the sound of their own synchronized breathing, the room grew silent. Elsie contemplated letting herself fall back asleep, but now that the sun had risen and was streaming in the window — directly into her eyes, no less — she figured she'd not bother, and instead allowed herself to drowsily curl against him, inhaling his scent.

"Are there any of those tarts left?" he yawned, stroking her hair.

"No, we polished off the last of them with our sherry last night."

He sighed, "Well, eggs for breakfast then?"

She hummed in agreement, patting his chest. "I'm not quite ready to get up. Is it so terrible to linger? The bed's so warm —"

"So long as we're not late to church."

"We're _never_ late, darling." she said, letting her eyes flutter closed. He laughed low in his chest, and she wrinkled her nose at his vibrations against her cheek.

"It occurs to me — thinking of breakfast — that I don't even know how you prefer your eggs."

"After sitting next to me at the breakfast table for twenty some years I simply _cannot_ believe that to be true," she said, "You notice _everything,_ Charles."

"Well, I only know that we all ate what Mrs Patmore put before us. You'd've rather eaten a broiled rat than insult her cooking."

"Well, that's not _entirely_ true — but I see your point."

"I'm just wondering about your likes and preferences. I don't have to make eggs the same way every time."

She thought a moment, "Well, when I was a lass my mother fried them every morning for my Da, and I suppose I liked that well enough. But I think if I had a choice, I rather like them poached."

"Poached?" Charles nodded, "Not hard-boiled?"

"Not especially, though I'll eat it if it's put in front of me."

"Poached, then." he said, "That can't be too difficult."

She giggled knowingly, "You've not poached an egg before?"

"Can't say I've had the occasion to."

"I should warn you it's quite an art."

"Oh?"

"Mm," she nodded, "You need a slotted spoon —"

"Do we have one?"

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore gave us one with the other cooking things."

"Alright, then. Carry on."

"Well, then you boil a pot. Add a bit of vinegar. Oh — and the eggs must be very fresh."

"So far so good," he said, stroking her back gently. "Then?"

"You crack the eggs into a small cup or dish —"

"Like a custard dish?"

"Well, I suppose if that's all we have, we'll have to make do."

"Alright."

"Then you sort of — well, you gently let it spill into the simmering pot, you see. Oh, but first you make a bit of a whirl, in the water, and it brings the whites around the yoke — it's quite pretty and very delicate."

"Sounds it."

"Yes. Um — well, then you just let it cook. I like mine rather firm. You lift it out with the slotted spoon. . ."

"I admit I'm intrigued and anxious to try my hand at it."

She sighed against him, petting his chest a few times before sitting up. "Well, I suppose we ought to rise and shine, then. All this talk of eggs has made me rather hungry."

He sat up as well, and they both lingered sleepily in the bed for a moment, smiling at one another as they stretched themselves awake. He leaned over and gave her a light kiss before he threw the covers back. She slid off the bed, reaching her hands up to give herself another long stretch before padding across the room to the bathroom.

Following her into the small washroom, he had to shimmy behind her to get to the linen cabinet. Opening it, he pulled out two washcloths, handing her one as she turned on the faucet, her fingers lazily dangled under the running water to test its temperature. She flicked her eyes up to check the small looking glass — it was just big enough so that they could inspect themselves one at a time, but Charles hardly ever used it. _She_ was more or less his looking glass.

Reaching to run his washcloth under the faucet, he nudged her hand playfully.

"It's still cool," she warned, "tepid at best."

"I know," he said matter of factly, "I find it wakes me up more effectively when it's not warm. Besides, hot water is drying."

She gave him a sideways glance, "Well if you're at risk of drying up and blowing away on me you're welcome to some of my Pond's cream*."

He chuckled, "As much as I adore the scent of lemon and verbena on your skin, darling, I would not enjoy smelling it upon my own."

"I'm impressed that you were able to discern the scent — it's not the cold cream, though. You would be smelling my perfume; but you've missed one ingredient."

"I have?" he said, furrowing his brow.

She nodded, wiping the cloth along her neck. "It's lemon and verbena, yes – and _something else_. I admit it's more subtle but —"

"I'm usually very keen on subtle scents."

"I know," she said, "So you'll have to have another whiff."

She wrung out the face cloth and hung it on the small hook next to the sink. Turning, she headed back into their bedroom to her wardrobe, opening its doors.

He took his time, lathering a bit of soap onto the face cloth and running it over the skin of his face and neck. He knew that after she'd laid out her Sunday clothes, she'd lay out his as well. They'd never discussed it, and he'd certainly never expected her to. It was just one of their little kindnesses to one another.

"Is that green dress of yours pressed?" he called as he turned the faucet on again to rinse his face cloth.

"You'll have to be a bit more specific," she called back.

"It's — um, dark green. Moss colored."

"Oh, yes. It is. Why?"

"I — I like it, is all. If it's pressed perhaps — perhaps you'd wear it today?"

She didn't respond and he looked into the sink, afraid to lift his head. He heard her padding across the floor toward him and he hoped he hadn't upset her.

"Why?" she asked, hovering in the doorway. Her voice was small, uncertain but not offended, he didn't think. He looked up slowly.

"Well. I. . .I think you look quite fetching in it. I mean to say, you always look fetching, but this dress is one that I think is particularly so and —"

"We're only going to church, Charles. I don't think the Lord cares a lick about what I'm wearing."

"Perhaps not but I . . .I enjoy looking at you. Always, I do but —" he shook his head, "It's silly, you should ignore me."

She smiled, putting a hand on his arm, "I didn't mean to make you feel silly, Charles. I shouldn't tease you. I know what you mean to say and I'm flattered. I admit I'm relieved to think you find me attractive, being that I'm an old trout."

"You're very beautiful," he said, his voice wavering. "Perhaps I should tell you that more often."

She squeezed his arm. "I'll wear it."

"Yes?"

"Why not," she said, returning to the wardrobe, "It's clean and pressed. . ." she yanked it from the closet and held it up, "And I suppose it is a rather nice garment."

"Is it fairly new?"

"No," she laughed, pulling her shift over her head, "I've had it since I came to Downton but it lived in my trunk for a few decades. I never had much occasion to wear it, I suppose, or I forgot about it. When I gathered up my things to come here, with you, I found it. It only needed a bit of mending but it felt like a new dress." she smiled, looking over her bare shoulder at him, "And now that I know you like it so much I'm feeling particularly affectionate toward it."

He hung up his face cloth and stepped into the bedroom. She was sitting on the edge of the bed in her shift, putting her stockings on. He stood a moment, unmoving, and watched as her nimble fingers worked the nylon over her calves, up to where she'd fasten them at the thigh. She reached for the other, flicking her eyes up at him.

"I laid out your gray suit, will that do?" she asked, returning to her work.

He nodded, joining her at the foot of the bed, "Yes, thank you."

They sat back to back on their bed, she fastening her stockings, he putting on his socks. There was a companionable silence between them as they dressed. The bed creaked as he rose, reaching down to pull on his trousers. He looked up just as she stepped into her dress. They stood facing one another, the bed between them, she with a zipper that needed doing up and he with a shirt that could stand to be buttoned. Without speaking, they both came around to the foot of the bed. She turned, lifting her hair, and he took the zipper between his fingers and pulled it up gently. Turning back to him, she began to button up the front of his shirt as he fussed with his cufflinks.

"It's odd," she said, her fingers popping buttons into their holes, "You spent years dressing other men, I've occasionally played ladies maid — and now, here we are, dressing one another — I can't imagine I'm as good at dressing a man as I am a woman."

He leaned down and kissed her cheek, "You do a fine job. _Marvelous_. My buttons have never been straighter."

"I'll take the compliment — even if I know that statement to be patently false. You, _esteemed butler of Downton Abbey_ , have never been seen with so much as a _dangling thread_ on your livery."

He smiled, his chest puffing out a bit. "I was once rather a handsome man, you know. When I was young and first footman, I looked rather smart serving."

"No doubt you did," she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed so that she could begin to fix her hair, "I'm afraid I was never much to look at and I can't say the maids uniforms ever did much to help it."

Charles furrowed his brow, "Really?"

She popped a pin between her teeth and began working her hair into several tight plaits, "I 've always been plain," she said, "Becky was beautiful - she still is. I think my mother always thought it rather cruel that Becky was — well, the way she was — because she was so beautiful, certainly if she'd been — if things had been different, she'd have been able to be married." Her fingers worked assuredly, folding her hair into a bouquet of braids at the nape of her neck. "There was never a chance for me. My father used to tell my mother they should have tossed me out and kept the afterbirth*."

Charles winced. "That's a wretched, despicable thing to say."

Elsie shrugged, "I'm afraid there was never much evidence to the contrary."

"Elsie," Charles said, taking a step toward her. She popped one final pin between her teeth as she finished the last plait, the tendril flipping over and under her long fingers. "It's a wretched thing to say about anyone — but most of all _a child, your own flesh and blood_. That was a very cruel thing for your father to say."

Reaching for the pin Elsie just shook her head, "My father was uncouth at the _best_ of times, worse when he drank—" she looked up at Charles, his eyes almost glowing with anger. "Charles — don't be cross. I shouldn't have even said it aloud —"

"I'm not cross with _you_ ," he said , standing. "I'm angry at your father."

Finishing her hair, she rose to check the looking glass, giving a small chuckle, "Lot of good that'll do you — he's long dead. Fell out of a hay loft when I was seventeen," she scoffed under her breath, looking down at her hands, " _stupid, drunk bastard_ , he was."

"Elsie," Charles said quietly, but he stopped short. Unsure of what he even wanted to say.

"I'm sorry — shouldn't curse him on the Sabbath."

"It's not that," Charles said, taking a step toward her. He gently cupped her face between his hands and dipped down to kiss her. It wasn't a forceful, aggressive kiss — but tender, sweet, affirming. He pulled away when he felt his cheek dampen and realized she'd begun to cry.

"Now, now," he said softly, wiping her tears with his thumbs, "Do you want to come watch me attempt to poach you an egg?"

She smiled, reaching up to wipe her eyes. "I would love to," she said. She made to move past him but he reached out and took her hand, pulling her back into his arms.

"You're not plain — and I highly doubt that you ever were."

"Oh, Charles." she said, wiggling out of his embrace. He held her tighter.

"Listen a moment, please,." she calmed in his hands, looking up at him through damp eyelashes. He sighed, registering the hurt. "You are lovely. The women I've known in my life have been lovely, yes, many of them — but only dancing in London's great halls, draped in fine silks with jewels sparkling on their hands. They carefully coif and style, they primp, they rosy up their cheeks — and then they only sit or stand propped on someone's arm to be gazed upon. _Like statues_." he sighed, shaking his head slightly, "But you, _you_ are lovely when you wake. You are lovely when we have our tea and your hair is lopsided, falling out, and you reach up to set it right. You're lovely with muddy knees and your hands deep in dirt in our garden. You're lovely when you have flour all over your smock, and a dab of it on your nose, baking me a rhubarb pie because you know how much I adore it. You're lovely when we're walking back from the village and you reach down and take my hand;y. Your hands are always warm. You're lovely when you take a long swig of wine and reach up to wipe your mouth—" she blushed that this.

"Not very ladylike, I admit."

"You're _lovely_. Elsie you are the loveliest woman I've ever laid my eyes on precisely because you are not some paragon of what I always was taught a lovely lady was _supposed_ to be. All of that is just for show, it's hollow and empty and cold. You — _you are so full of life_! And you're so warm and soft and — lovely," he implored, reaching up to stroke her face gently. "Those ladies might have a spark but you — _you have a fire."_

She pulled her lip under her front teeth, grinning as her eyes welled up with tears. Charles hummed softly, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Now that we've got that sorted — how about we poach an egg?"

* * *

* In New England we call them Chickadees, not Titmice.

* We don't even need to imagine this because we have PL saying it in that interview, ha!

* Indeed, Pond's skin cream existed then — and here we are, years later, and it's what I use as a cold cream!

* A grandmother of mine who was displeased with my arrival actually said this, it's part of family lore. I can't think of a worse insult.


	2. Poached Eggs and Hymns

_Thank you, Steph! You delightful beta, you. . .a lovely reviewer mentioned that the church may be Anglican? Or Episcopalian? So, I don't know if I did right by that assumption but I chose the hymns and passages in service of the story, so I do hope that it works out okay! Thank you for your lovely reviews here and on Tumblr, glad you like this odd little thing. . .notes at the end because I'm like that._

* * *

The oddly sweet aroma of burning toast filled the kitchen. Elsie's laughter rose up into the rafters, concealing the grumbling and clanking of dishes as Charles was bested by the breakfast he was attempting to put together.

"I really do despise this contraption," Charles mumbled, pulling another charred slice of bread from the toaster with an exasperated sign. "I don't even think it makes the toast better! Don't you prefer it on the griddle?"

Elsie laughed, stirring her tea. "The griddle makes it soft. I like it _crisp_."

"Well," Charles snorted, dropping the blackened toast onto the counter, "Is that bloody crisp enough for you?"

"Don't fuss with it," Elsie said, licking the spoon she'd been stirring her tea with. "Are you avoiding poaching the eggs?"

"I'm not _avoiding_ it," he defended, pressing a hand on his hip. "I'm — I'm just thinking it _through_. I'm mentally preparing. Envisioning my success." he brightened, "Like before a cricket match."

"I don't think it requires quite so much preparation as that," she laughed, pushing her chair back from the table. "I'll do the first one. You can watch."

"Perhaps that would be a good idea," Charles conceded, unplugging the toaster. "I've the pot there, with water — now, you said vinegar?"

"Yes," Elsie said, reaching for an apron, "Just a drop. And fetch a custard dish — or whatever we have that's about that size."

"Why the vinegar?"

Elsie tied the apron back and looked over her shoulder at him. "It lowers the acidity, makes the egg whites hold together better."

Grabbing a small dish from the cabinet, Charles turned back to her, a rather proud smile forming on his lips. "Lowers the acidity, eh? I never knew you were a chemist."

"I'm not — Mrs. Patmore might well be, though. Baking _is_ a science."

"I'll not deny her that," he laughed, setting the custard dish and bottle of vinegar on the counter next to her, "Where've you left the eggs?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, "Where I _always_ leave them, darling."

Charles sighed, "On the counter."

"The best way to keep eggs fresh is to leave them in the hen," she joked, "We always left our eggs out — they'll keep for a long while, and we'll eat them long before they'll turn.*"

"They'll last _twice_ so long if we put them in the ice box."

"Charles, they'll _freeze_ if we put them in the ice box."

"It's just — it makes me squeamish to think of them getting warm."

"They're warm when the hen lays them." Elsie teased, bumping him with her hip. "Go fetch a few for me, would you? I'll do the first one — then you can have a go at it."

Charles obeyed, slipping his hands onto her hips as he shuffled behind her, making his way to the other end of the kitchen to the small basket where Elsie kept the eggs.

"Was that your job on the farm?" he asked.

"Hmm?" she hummed, lighting the stove.

"Getting the eggs from the henhouse."

"Oh, no— that was Becky's job. But I'd occasionally have to do it for her, when she was ill or in a bad way."

"How big was the Hughes' farm?"

"Oh, not very. We had the hens, a dairy cow or two. Our nearest neighbors had an enormous farm, must have been more than 500 acres. They had all the cows. Belted Galloways *, these beautiful, fluffy, things. Had the sweetest faces. They actually didn't milk them, though. They let the milk come in for the calves. I'd hop the fence and pet them during spring calving, they were so darling. Very curious."

"Like you, I suppose."

Elsie blushed, "A bit."

"What was your job on the farm, then?" Charles said, returning to her side, a couple of eggs nestled in each hand.

"I milked the cows in the morning, hung the wash, helped Ma cook." she sighed, "Went into the village to drag Da out of the pub."

Charles handed her an egg, "That doesn't sound like a suitable job for a farmgirl. Or for a daughter."

"I don't want to rile you up again," she said, cracking the egg one-handed against the porcelain dish, "Drop a capful of vinegar into the water when it comes to a rolling boil."

"Did he ever hurt you?" Charles asked quietly, setting the eggs down gently on the counter.

"How do you mean?" she asked, her mouth curling protectively around her words.

"Did he — _physically_ , I mean?"

Elsie shrugged, "Weren't _you_ given the belt when you misbehaved?"

"I don't mean like that. I mean. . .when he was drinking. Did he ever hurt you?"

"Here, give me that spoon." Elsie said, "Now, I'm going to stir the water a bit, like this — and then —" she reached for the dish, lowering it to the water's surface and letting the egg slip into the whirling water. "There. See? Now you just take the spoon and —" with a gentle flick of her wrist, she spooned the egg white up and over the yoke. Charles watched with rapt attention, ever the eager student. She sighed, lifting the spoon from the water and watching as the thin tendrils of egg white spun around in the pot. "There were a few roughing ups."

Charles looked up, met her gaze for a moment before she lowered it.

"Elsie—"

"This one's done —" she said, handing him the spoon, "Time for you to have a go?"

He hesitated, not wanting to end the conversation, but he saw the pleading in her eyes and took the spoon from her. They traded places at the stove, and he let his hand linger on her lower back. He held the spoon above the boiling pot, waiting.

"Are you envisioning your success?" she said, leaning against him. He chuckled, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her against his side.

"I confess, I got distracted." he laughed low in his throat, "I'm trying to picture you milking a cow."

"I rather enjoyed it. It was very calming. The only time of day I had to myself, really. Walking out to the barn with a shawl tucked round my shoulders at first light. Sitting in the barn as the world woke up around me. Squirting milk into a dish for the barn cats." she nudged him, pointing to the water. "Go on, then, give it a stir."

He did, looking to her for approval.

"Well done. Crack the egg into the dish —"

"I can't do it one-handed like you."

"With practice you could."

She leaned her head on his shoulder, watching as he took the egg between his large, rugged hands — and very daintily cracked it.

"Now, you remember about dipping it into the pot?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Alright. Go on, then."

With a hesitant motion, Charles inched the egg from the small dish into the swirling pot of water. It wasn't quite so elegant as when Elsie had, but he'd managed.

"There, now take your spoon, bring the egg whites up and over the yolk. Like you're tucking it into bed — nicely done."

They stood there a moment, the boiling water rolling against the side of the pot the only sound between them. The morning had fully awoken their yard, and outside the kitchen window, the yard had come to life. Birds hopping on the branches of the oak tree at the foot of their drive, a few on the ground. A stray cat prowled their garden, its tail swishing through the lilacs Elsie had planted just after they'd moved in.

"Is it — _lily of the valley_?"

"What?" Elsie asked, lifting her gaze from the egg. "What is?"

"The scent. Of your perfume. The one that I couldn't discern. Is it lily of the valley?"

Elsie pressed her lips together, hiding her smile. _Ah, this is a game now._ She thought, her eyes playful. She licked her lips before she spoke, "No. Not lillies."

"Hm." Charles said, "Well don't tell me — I want to figure it out."

"Oh, I won't." she said, "That egg's about done — take your slotted spoon and lift it out."

"I don't think I did too terribly bad, do you?" he said, dipping the spoon into the water.

"You did _very_ well."

"I had excellent instruction." Charles said, ceremoniously plopping the egg onto a slice of toast that he'd not decimated entirely. Elsie took the plates and made her way to the table while he turned down the stove and reached for the teapot and two cups.

"Do you suppose Anna will return to church today?" Charles said, setting the teapot down and placing a cup in front of her.

"Oh, I wouldn't think." Elsie said, shaking out her napkin, "I don't think we'll see her out much until the bairn's weaned."

Charles nodded, lifting the tea cozy, "Will that be a long while?"

"A few more months at least, I should think. She could hardly sit through an entire service when the bairn's still nursing."

"Oh," Charles said, his cheeks pinking up. "I see."

Elsie looked up at him, smiling. "No need to be embarrassed, Charles. It's the most natural thing in the world." she furrowed her brow, reaching for the small pitcher of milk, "You were there when the Crawley ladies were lasses, surely you saw a wet-nurse or two."

"Actually, I did _not_." Charles said, tucking his napkin into his shirt. "Her Ladyship never employed a wet nurse."

Eyeing him as she poured her tea, Elsie blinked slowly. "She didn't?"

Charles shook his head, a bit flustered. "I don't know what that means, precisely, but there were never any wet nurses at Downton. Or, I should say, not since His Lordship became Earl. Nannies, yes, _plenty_ of nannies but —"

"It means, Charles, that the Countess of Grantham nursed her own bairns." Elsie said, setting the teapot down with a thud. "I must say, I am rather impressed."

"I suppose I don't understand why."

"Most ladies of great houses do _not_ nurse, or even care directly, for their children." she reached for her fork, parsing off a piece of egg and toast, popping it into her mouth. "Oh, well done Charles. That's a wonderfully poached egg."

"That's the egg _you_ poached, darling."

Elsie laughed, her fingers hovering prettily in front of her lips as she swallowed, "Oh — well, let me have a bite of yours then."

"No," Charles said, pulling his plate closer to his side of the table, "You've your own."

"Charles, I just want to taste yours. I'm sure it's just as good as mine. Perhaps you've surpassed me in egg poaching."

"Unless we want to be late to church, we don't have time to make any more and this one's all I've got to sustain me until refreshments in the vestry after the service. And it's the second Sunday of the month, which you _know_ means that Mrs. Patmore will make pear tarts, which are not my favorite, and so I will be quite ravenous by luncheon —"

"Firstly, you know that since we're retired you're free to refer to her as _Beryl,_ " Elsie chided, reaching her fork across the table to poke at Charles' plate, "And _secondly_ , as your tutor I must insist on checking your work."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she deftly snatched up a bite of his breakfast before he could utter a word.

"Well done, darling." Elsie said, looking up at him, "A bit less done than I prefer them, but not bad by any means." Turning back to her own plate, she grinned, satisfied.

"You're a woman of many talents, Elsie Hughes Carson." Charles said, finishing his tea. "Now we've just got to find a cow for you to milk."

* * *

Elsie pulled her jumper, "It's a bit nippy!" she said, looping her arm through Charles' as they walked into the village.

"English springs." Charles said over the sound of their feet crunching against the cold, frost-bitten ground, "But summer will be just round the corner."

"Then I'll be complaining it's too _warm,_ " Elsie laughed, giving his arm a squeeze. As they approached St. Michael's, Beryl came bustling toward them, waving animatedly.

"Good morning, Beryl!" Elsie called, giving her a small wave.

"Anna's in the vestry — only for a _moment_ , she's showing off that beautiful baby of hers! Come on, we've a few minutes to visit before the service starts."

"Oh!" Elsie said, looking up at Charles, " _You_ haven't seen the baby since she was just a few days old!"

Following Beryl into the church and winding through its narrow halls, they turned the corner into the vestry where Anna sat, John standing behind her chair beaming with pride.

Anna looked up as they stepped into the room, her face brightening.

"Oh, Mrs. Hugh— _Carson,_ I mean! And _Mr._ Carson!" she giggled.

Elsie squealed, but only so loud that Charles could hear it, and pulled him into the room with her. "Anna, you know you can call us by our _Christian names_ now that we've left Downton."

Anna smiled up at John, "I don't think we'd ever get used to that."

"You're looking well, Anna." Charles said, folding his hands nervously in front of himself, "I take it everything is going well?"

"Well enough, Mr. Carson. Though John and I've not had much sleep."

"I told you to ring us if you needed respite," Elsie chided, taking a seat. "We would happily take her for an afternoon. Or I could come by and do some housekeeping."

"I'd be happy enough with a visit," Anna said, "And so would Miss Grace Elsie Bates."

"She's growing like a weed!" Elsie said, smiling at the baby.

"How old is she now, Anna?" Beryl asked, standing next to Elsie's chair.

"Three months," Anna sighed, "It does go by terribly fast."

"Though I wish she'd take to sleeping," John said, stifling a yawn.

"She will, soon enough." Elsie said, "Anna — may I hold her?"

"Oh, of course." Anna said, passing the bundle to Elsie.

"I think she gets more and more beautiful each time I see her." Elsie marveled. She looked up at Charles, who was still hovering somewhat awkwardly in the doorway. "Charles, come here."

He took a few hesitant steps toward them, leaning down to inspect the baby. Grace cooed, blinking curiously up at him.

"She _likes_ you, Mr. Carson." Anna smiled, reaching up to take John's hand.

Elsie flicked her gaze up at him, "Isn't she precious?" she whispered, her eyes damp. Something passed between them and it tugged at his heart. He cleared his throat nervously. Before he could reply, the church bells rang out and everyone began to head to the service.

"Oh, dear little one, I must give you back to your mummy now." Elsie sighed, passing Grace back to Anna, "Are you staying for the service?"

Anna shook her head, tucking the swaddling tighter around her daughter. "No, she's not quite liable to stay quiet long enough." Anna smiled, "But I very much needed to get out for a bit. One can go a little stir crazy."

"Please _do_ ring us, Anna. Even if you'd just like some company. Or a cuppa." Elsie said, placing a hand affectionately on Anna's cheek.

"I will— _Mrs. Carson_." she giggled, "I promise."

"Good," she said. She looked up to Charles, extending a hand which he happily took. "Shall we?"

Charles nodded, "A pleasure to see you both." he said. John and Anna nodded.

"You're welcome to visit too, you know." John said, "Gracie really _does_ seem to like you."

Looking down at the baby in Anna's arms, Charles tried to suppress the smile that was tugging at his lips as he realized the baby hadn't taken her large, bright blue eyes from him since he'd crossed the room. She looked up at him and made some indistinct baby noise, but it seemed pleased enough.

"Yes, well. We'll be sure to drop by." Charles said. He looked down at Elsie, who had threaded her arm through his again. "Ready?"

"C'mon, we'll miss the first hymn." Beryl said, swatting Elsie's hip with her handbag. "You two are worse than a lovestruck footman and his little maid."

"Oh, _Beryl._ " Elsie said as they made their way to their usual pew.

"Try to keep the hanky panky down today, would you? You're in a house of God." Beryl laughed, shuffling passed them. Elsie and Charles settled in, reaching for their hymnals.

"Anna looks well, but awfully tired." Elsie said, settling the tattered book into her lap, "I think I'll make a stew this afternoon, take some over for them. She must be too tired to cook."

"What did she mean that the baby _likes_ me?" Charles asked, tipping his head to one side.

Elsie furrowed her brow, "Grace? Didn't you see how she kept her eyes on you? She thought you were quite interesting. Probably because you're such a _tall_ lad." Elsie said, patting his knee affectionately.

The organ groaned to life and the first notes of the opening hymn filled the church. Charles turned the page of his hymnal and looked over at Elsie, who had already begun to sing, knowing the words by heart.

 _ **I sing because I'm happy,**_

 _ **I sing because I'm free,**_

 _ **For His eye is on the sparrow,**_

 _ **And I know He watches me.**_

"Good morning," Reverend Travis began. The congregation echoed his sentiment. "Today's sermon is one that I think will appeal to every member of our congregation — and I know that's not _always_ the case," he chuckled. "I think the topic speaks to the older members of our generation as well as the younger: _love._ As we read in John 1:4, _Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love."_

" _Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. We love because he loved us first."_

"Now, if you'll turn to your hymnals, we'll sing _Open My Eyes That I May See,_ and lift up our voices and as the Lord to help us see his love in ourselves, and in one another."

Elsie bounced on her heels as she stood, biting her lip around a smile.

"This is my favorite hymn," she whispered.

"I know," Charles laughed, "You tell me every Sunday."

" _Open my eyes, that I may see_

 _glimpses of truth thou hast for me._

 _Place in my hands the wonderful key"_

She sang, reaching for his hand. He looked down, momentarily taken aback, and she looked up at him a bit sheepishly. He squeezed her hand reassuringly, because he did not feel scandalized in that moment as she feared he might. Instead, he only felt a swell of love for her, and for the Lord that made them. He felt a peace wash over him standing there, the congregation around them made from their friends and neighbors, those who had always embraced them as individuals and welcomed their union. He stopped singing a moment so that he could listen to her sweet lilt next to him. She had a lovely singing voice, something he knew about her from the first Sunday she joined the downstairs staff at church. But it was sweeter to him now, because he didn't only hear it on bright Sunday mornings. He would hear her singing as she worked in the garden, Scottish folk songs of her past rolling along her voice as she swept the kitchen floor.

"— _that shall unclasp and set me free._

 _Silently now I wait for thee,_

 _ready, my God, thy will to see._

 _Open my eyes; illumine me,_

 _Spirit divine!"_

He listened, letting his eyes flutter closed. As the organ hung on the final notes and the congregation moved to sit down, the old wooden pews creaking under their weight, he started, turning to her excitedly.

"Balsam?"

"What?"

"Is the scent in your perfume that I haven't guessed — is it balsam?"

She pursed her lips tightly to hide her laugh. Reverend Travis had begun to preach again and so she leaned very close to Charles to speak. "No — that would be the scent of the wreaths at the altar you've got a whiff of, darling."

Charles sighed, furrowing his brow. His inability to discern the elusive component of her perfume was going to niggle at him until he figured it out.

" _We know that we have passed from death to life, because we love each other. Anyone who does not love remains in death."_ Reverend Travis said. "Our moral goodness leads us to love reverently our Holy Father, for he loves us and his love his pure. Our love is our obedience to his divine will. Obedience is a product of love, it is _evidence_ of love. True love is not heard, _but felt._ Not expressed in words, _but deeds_. Let us all live to be worthy of this love, and love one another as He loves us. Join me now in prayer, Our Father*. "

Elsie sighed, letting her head bow, her eyes flutter closed. Charles waited, watching her face relax into quiet repose, before he closed his own eyes, folding his hands in his lap.

 _Our father, who art in heaven_

 _Hallowed be thy name._

 _Thy kingdom come, thy will be done_

 _on earth as it is in heaven._

 _Give us this day, our daily bread_

 _and forgive us our tresspasses_

 _as we forgive those who trespass against us;_

 _and lead us not into temptation,_

 _but deliver us from evil._

 _For thine is the kingdom, the power and_

 _the glory forever._

 _Amen._

"Well close the service with a hymn that's long been a favorite of mine," Reverend Travis smiled, "And I know it's a favorite of yours as well —" he nodded to the organist and as the first familiar notes sailed up into the rafters, Charles sighed in delight.

"This is indeed a favorite of mine," he said, closing his hymnal. "I know it by heart."

Elsie reached over and took his hand again, letting it rest between them at their sides. "I like it too," she whispered, tucking her hymnal back into its spot in the rack of the pew in front of them.

" _Abide with me: fast falls the eventide;_

 _the darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide._

 _When other helpers fail and comforts flee,_

 _Help of the helpless, O abide with me. "_

* * *

"Charles is quite partial to your apple tarts," Elsie said, nursing a cup of tea as she and Beryl sat together, watching the rest of the congregation mingle as they had luncheon together after the service. It was always a casual affair, left to the downstairs staff and villagers. Today, however, Lady Edith had stayed behind and was chasing after her young daughter, Marigold.

"Oh, I know." Beryl said, her teacup rattling against its saucer as she set it down on the small table between them. "It's still so _odd_ to hear you call him Charles."

Elsie smirked, "It still feels odd to call him — well, _anything_ other than Mr. Carson. But it's become a bit more second-nature as the year has passed."

They watched as the village children ran about with pretty, delicate ribbons on sticks, whipping them through the air, the colors dancing. Charles strolled through the cascade of color toward them, a plate with a tart in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.

"He's a bit of a limp," Beryl said, "What's that about?"

Elsie hummed as she swallowed back her tea, "Yes — he's got a knee that bothers him from time to time."

"Have you taken him to Dr. Clarkson?"

"No," Elsie chuckled, "He's never mentioned it to me. I've just noticed."

"I'd say that's because you're his wife, but that's not why. You'd have noticed it back at Downton just the same." Beryl smiled, pulling a chair out for Charles to sit in. "I know you prefer the apple tart, _Mr. Carson_ , but it's not the right season for fresh apples as you well know."

"Oh, how I lament." Charles said, the wooden chair groaning under his weight as he sat down.

"Has Anna gone home, then?" Elsie said, sticking her fork into the tart, cutting a bite-sized piece off and spearing it.

"Yes, but John said she may stay for the service next week. They might have a girl Anna knows from the village stay with the baby." Beryl said, "She looks well enough. Tired. Like she could use a good home-cooked meal."

"That's precisely what Elsie said," Charles laughed, poking at his tart.

"How are things up at the big house?" Elsie said, "Little Marigold seems to have sprouted right up since we left."

"She's a sweet little thing. Quiet, like her mum." Beryl said, "George is looking more and more like his father at every turn."

"I suppose that's hard on Lady Mary." Elsie said quietly.

"Actually, I think it's lifted her spirits. She's proud that he's growing up to be like his father."

" _That's_ the Lady Mary I know," Charles said, popping a bite of tart into his mouth.

"Any word from Tom and Sybbie?"

"Not since the last— when he said Sybbie had started school. She's smart as a whip and giving him plenty of trouble."

"Oh _good!_ " Elsie laughed.

"Is it anise?" Charles said.

"What?" Beryl asked. "In the _tart_?"

"No," Elsie sighed, she turned to Charles. "And _no,_ it's not anise."

"What're you on about?" Beryl laughed.

"He's trying to guess the scent of my —" Elsie hesitated, blushing. "Of the _fragrance_ I wear. He's discerned two of the three scents its made from but —"

"Ohhhh," Beryl said. She turned, giving Charles a smug grin. "You'll never guess it."

Elsie slapped Beryl's hand playfully. "Don't give him any hints."

"I'm _not_!"

"Shall I fetch more tea?" Charles said, moving to stand.

"We should be heading back," Beryl said, "They've got a busy week ahead, if Daisy and I don't get started on the preparations we'll drown."

Elsie looked at her friend empathetically. Beryl sighed, reaching for her coat. "Do you ever miss it? Even a _smidge_?"

"All the time," Elsie said softly, without hesitation. A look passed between the two women and then Beryl wrapped her coat tightly around herself and reached over to quickly hug Elsie, giving her a light kiss on the cheek. "You should come by for dinner after the worst of it has passed."

"You, _cooking?_ " Beryl laughed, giving Charles a knowing look. "Or _your_ perhaps?"

"I _did_ teach him how to poach an egg this morning." Elsie grinned.

"Oh, well Mr. Carson. Another feather in your cap."

"Well, I'd not go that far." Charles laughed, picking up their plates. "Give my regards to everyone."

"I always do, don't I?" Beryl said, patting Charles on the arm. He smiled down at her and went off to return their plates to the church kitchenette. "He misses it awful, don't he?"

"How could he not?" Elsie sighed, furrowing her brow as he limped off. "Downton was his home."

"P'raps," Beryl said, "But if he'd stayed — he'd have missed _you_ more."

* * *

* The biggest debate between myself and every person I've ever lived with, be it in college or relationships. . .where do you keep your fresh eggs? In life I am more on Charles' side here, keep mine in the fridge, but I do know that most of my childhood friends (who lived on farms) kept them out on the counter. An ex boyfriend of mine kept them on his desk in his dorm room, lol.

* Google these fucking cows they are ADORABLE and THEY ARE SCOTTISH COWS! THEY LIKE THE COLD AND DAMP! THEY ARE FLUFFY AND CUTE! Also, the farm near me actually doesn't milk their cows precisely so that they can nurse their calves for as long as possible, which I think is nice.

* I have no idea if this is the right prayer, but it seemed to widely shared across Christian denominations.


	3. Etiquette and The Golden Bells

**A/N: Thank you Steph for your beta-love, especially for correcting the _pathological_ comma problem I have. You are a superstar.**

* * *

"Contrary to the nip in the air, spring is certainly here," Charles said as they strode along the path toward home. "Look at all the blackthorn."

Elsie followed his gaze to the thicket, taking in the sight of the dainty white blossoms.

"I wait for the snapdragons," Elsie said, "They fill the hedgerows with so much vibrant color."

"We could plant some in our garden," Charles said, "They like sun."

"Mm," Elsie said, tightening her grasp on his hand. "We could use something other than phlox."

"I happen to like phlox!"

"Well, so do I! But we have _so_ much of it," Elsie chuckled, squinting as the sun peaked out from behind one of the trees sheltering the path. "I'd never have guessed you'd've such a green thumb."

"Well, my mother liked flowers."

" _Liked_ them? From the sounds of it she practically had a _greenhouse_."

Charles smiled, "Her gardens were quite wonderous. Impressive when you consider how little time she had to tend to them."

"What were her favorites?"

"Flowers?" Charles thought a moment, "She planted a number of hydrangeas outside of our cottage. And there were chrysanthemums Queen Anne's lace in the yard. And she always had a tiny vase with forget-me-nots on her nightstand."

"Any particularly reason?"

Charles shrugged, "Maybe she was trying to remember something."

"Or some _one_ ," Elsie ventured. "I like forget-me-nots. We should plant some. And we have that little vase Daisy gave us for our wedding."

"Oh yes — the Mary Gregory-style*?"

"Mmm. I nearly fainted when I saw it. Beryl said she'd found it at a shop in Thirsk on her half day, it was a bit dusted up but she rather painstakingly set about prettying it up. Beryl said she spent no more than ten shillings on it — clearly the antiquary had no idea of its worth."

"I should think _not_! In London these would go for _a pound_ or more!"

"I suppose we could sell it if we're ever truly destitute, but remembering how proud and excited the lass was to give it to us, I don't think I could ever feel right parting with it."

"It does deserve to have some fresh blossoms in it, however. Forget-me-nots would be nice indeed."

Elsie sighed wearily as their cottage came into sight. She very much wanted to take off her shoes and stockings and curl up with her book and a cup of tea. There was washing to do, and she should finish the jumper she was knitting for Grace, but her mind was still stuck in the sleepy morning she and Charles had shared and she wanted very much to hold on to it.

"I'm betting you're looking forward to curling up with a good book and some tea," Charles said, unlatching their front gate and stepping aside so that she could walk through.

" _I'd_ say you know that because you know me so well, but I admit, my routines are quite predictable."

"What are you reading today?" he said, following behind her, turning to relatch the gate.

"Oh, another novel. Miss Willa Cather's* latest. _O, Pioneers._ "

"Pioneers? How American of you."

She laughed, pushing their front door open. "Well, the family is European; Swedish immigrants. The main protagonist is a young woman who inherits her father's farm —"

"Ah, I'm beginning to see the appeal."

Elsie gave him a look as she bent down to begin unlacing her shoes, "I suppose some of it inspires some memories in me — though a farm in Nebraska can't be much like one in Scotland."

"Where is Nebraska?" Charles said, hanging up his coat, "Is it near where Branson is?"

"I don't think so," Elsie said, "I think it's nearer the other coastline."

"Oh."

"What about you?" Elsie asked, pulling off her shoes and sighing with relief. "Have you got anything planned for the remainder of the day?"

"Well," Charles began, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "I was contemplating doing some raking in the yard, but this talk of literature has me very much wanting to join you in the sitting room for some reading and repose."

"And what're you reading now?" she asked, standing and smoothing her skirts.

"I was actually hoping to continue forging my way through Ms. Post's etiquette book*. The one you gifted me for Christmas."

"Oh yes, I'm eager to hear your thoughts," Elsie grinned, padding through the hallway toward the kitchen. He followed, sauntering through the sunlight halls, straightening a picture on the wall as he passed by it.

"She speaks quite highly of the housekeeper," he says, taking the book from where he'd left it on the table earlier. He opened to a passage he'd clearly marked and cleared his throat, " _A good housekeeper is always a woman of experience and tact, and often a lady; friction is, therefore, extremely rare_."

Elsie guffawed, "Friction amongst whom, I wonder."

"Certainly not the butler."

"Oh no," Elsie teased, " _Never_ the butler."

"Ms. Post has quite a bit to say about allowing maids to have suitors in the house."

"Does she?" Elsie said, turning to look over her shoulder at him as she lit the stove, "Like what?"

"Well — first of all that it would be ridiculous to forbid them to bring their gentleman callers round. That it would be ill-advised to have them going out in the dark of night, sneaking around to meet up with them." He leafed through a few more pages and read, " _Because she wears a uniform makes her no less a young girl, with a young girl's love of amusement, which if not properly provided for her "at home" will be sought for in sinister places."_

Elsie sighed, "Well, now that I've run off with the butler I suppose I could hardly begrudge them a beau of their own."

"I think it's all terribly American," he said, closing the book. "Although I _did_ find the chapters on Southern hospitality rather intriguing. Apparently, the women of the South are quite . . ." he opened the book again, licking the tip of his finger before beginning to flip for the passage, "Ah — here, listen to this: ' _The reputation of Southern women for having the gift of fascination is perhaps due not to prettiness of feature more than to the brilliancy or sweetness of their ready smile. That Southern women are charming and "feminine" and lovable is proverbial. How many have noticed that Southern women always bow with the grace of a flower bending in the breeze and a smile like sudden sunshine? The unlovely woman bows as though her head were on a hinge and her smile sucked through a lemon!' "_

The tea kettle whistled over the sound of Elsie's giggles, "Goodness — _smiling like sudden sunshine?"_

"The word _blinding_ comes to mind," he said, closing the book. "Are there any of those chocolate biscuits left?"

"The ones with almonds or plain?"

"Do we have both?"

"No — only plain."

"Well, I'll have a plain one then."

Elsie smirked, opening the cabinet. Reaching for the biscuit tin, she paused, shaking her head as she laughed quietly. For a person bred of such high standards, Charles Carson could be an incredibly easy man to please. Balancing the tin against her hip and threading her fingers through the handle of two teacups, she lifted the kettle from the stove and made her way to the table.

"You should have let me help!" he said, rising quickly to take the steaming kettle from her hand.

"I _was_ a housemaid before I was housekeeper," she said, "I can manage."

Easing himself back into his chair, Charles winced as his knee popped loudly. Pouring their tea, Elsie shot him a look. He'd been avoiding bringing it up, she knew, but she rather had him cornered now. If he didn't offer up any complaint, she'd ask.

"I think I'm beginning to thaw from the winter," he chided, though his face was still in a tight grimace. "My bones seem to creak more and more every winter that passes."

She gave him an empathetic nod, "As do mine — I've a wrist that aches something awful from time to time."

"Do you?" he asked, lifting the lid of the biscuit tin, "You've never mentioned it."

She shook her head, lifting her hand dismissively. "Well, it's nothing to worry yourself over. Just years of overuse, that's all," she self-consciously reached for the lame wrist, squeezing it gently. "Surely you've got an Achilles' Heel?"

"I've a knee that bothers me on occasion," he said, taking a bite of a biscuit.

"We're a pair, aren't we?"

He brushed the fallen crumbs on the table into a neat pile with his finger, "I don't _feel_ quite so old, you know. Not in my mind, anyway."

Reaching for a biscuit, Elsie nodded, "I know. I don't feel it either, really. In my imagination I'm still a sprite young woman. One peek in the looking glass will set me right, however."

Taking another biscuit from the tin, Charles sighed, watching as she delicately touched her fingers to her lips, pushing stray crumbs into her mouth.

"You know _all_ the words to the hymns without even _looking_ at the lyrics" he said, more of a statement than a question, "How do you do that?"

She shrugged, "The same as memorizing anything else, I imagine. By rote, mostly. I sang many, many hymns as a girl, then as a maid,," she swallowed, "Surely you must know most of them by heart _by now._ "

He shook his head, "I suppose my mind just doesn't work that way," he reached for his tea cup, but paused before bringing it to his lips. "There is one that I _do_ know — I'm not sure you'd have heard it. I don't think it's Scottish."

"I've sung more _English_ hymns than I have _Scots_ ones, darling*."

"Well, it was written by an actor* — he had a troupe, in Spain I think — anyway, I first heard it when Grigg and I were living in London. There was a _pub-turned-theatre_ on St John Street, the Old Red Lion*," he shook his head nostalgically, "And I met a young woman there — she was  Spanish*, very tall and exotically beautiful. Like no woman I had ever seen — or have ever seen since, quite honestly. There was something almost _ethereal_ about her. If Grigg and the other actors hadn't confirmed her presence, I may have thought she was nothing but my dizzy imaginings. Anyhow, she sang the hymn to us. I didn't realize it was a hymn, at first, until maybe the second or third time I heard it and I was sober enough to really listen to the words."

Held in rapt attention, Elsie leaned forward across the table, "What was her name?"

"Hm?"

"This ghost of a woman — do you remember her name?"

Charles blushed, "Ophelia."

" _Ophelia!_ " Elsie breathed, "Like the ill-fated heroine of Hamlet."

"Yes, well — she was traveling with a ballet, I think. I don't recall, but I do recall the song."

"Sing it."

"What — _now_?"

"No, darling — _Wednesday next_ ," she giggled, giving him a naughty grin.

"If you give me such cheek I'll never sing it and you'll have to wonder —"

"Oh, _go on_ — I'm sorry. I won't tease."

"Very well," he said, "On one condition."

"What's that?"

"I'll sing you the first verse, so you can get the tune — and then you'll sing the refrain with me."

"Oh, _Charles_."

"Say you will."

"I can't learn it _that_ fast!"

"Yes you can too! For heaven's sake, you used to walk by the nursery once and by the time you got downstairs you'd be humming Master George's nursery rhymes."

"I'll try," she conceded, brushing the crumbs from her lap.

"That's all I ask." he said. He took a sip of tea, set his cup down carefully on its saucer, and cleared his throat. He let his eyes flutter closed and hummed a pitch, then lifted his voice atop it to sing, " _There's a land beyond the river, that they call the sweet forever, and we'll only reach that shore by faith's decree —"_

" _One by one, we'll gain the portals, there to dwell with the immortals—"_ Elsie sang quietly.

Charles eyes opened brightly and his mouth hung open, "You know it?" before she could respond, he leaned back in his chair, laughing. "Of _course_ you do, I'd be a fool to think otherwise."

"We sang it at my mother's funeral," she said, "It was very dear to her."

He studied her a moment, "I'm sorry I —"

"Charles," she whispered, reaching across the table to take his hand. " _When they ring the golden bells for you and me.*"_

* * *

* These vases would have EASILY been a pound or more. They actually have a very interesting history and would have been a very nice little thing to have. Daisy would have likely seen it in a shop, thought it quaint, but not realized its worth. But Carson certainly would have, and Elsie too — the Crawleys probably had a few around.

* _Headcanon alert:_ from time to time, Tom writes Mrs Hughes and recommends American authors he thinks she might enjoy.

* Emily Post's Etiquette would have simultaneously delighted and horrified Carson, and I'm sure Elsie would know that upon flipping through the book herself. Again, something that may have come at the suggestion of Tom Branson ;)

* Given that she's lived far longer in England than she ever did in Scotland, I presume this to be true.

* A real place.

* It really was written by an actor — may I suggest, however, Natalie Merchant's version of it? ( _When They Ring The Golden Bells_ )

* Just a historical aside: it was still an intense struggle for dancers of color to join companies and ballet would remain a predominantly white art form. . well, even now I would say it's still largely dominated by caucasian dancers. In my mind, imaging this woman (Spanish because the writer of the song was from Spain, so she'd have heard it and brought it to the rest of Europe with her) is loosely based on the brilliant Katherine Dunham — who founded the first African American ballet theatre in the US, the Ballet Nègre.

* It's also like — ringing the bells of service, ya dig? #LayeredMeaning #SeeWhatIDidThere


	4. Dishes & Agreement

**A/N: All my love to Steph (dillydallyy) for being my loyal beta and _thank heavens we got through this chapter, child._ NSFW at last! As always, thank you for the love here and on tumblr — you guys are so great. I'm so glad I shared this lil' experiment with you. As per usual, some notes at the end!**

* * *

Her tea had gone cold, but she wasn't in any rush to warm it. Curled up in one of their large, plush settees— from Downton, part of the generous house-warming gifts from the Crawleys — with her legs tucked beneath her, his warmth radiating from where he sat next to her, she quite simply didn't want to budge.

The room was quiet except for the ticking of the grandfather clock that stood watch in the corner, and the sound of pages turning crisply as they read in tandem. She only looked up from her book when she felt him rest a hand on her foot, rubbing it gently. He didn't look up, only smiled, giving her toes a squeeze.

She chuckled at a passage, humming nostalgically. When she didn't explain herself, he cleared his throat to inquire.

"What?" he said, turning a page in his book.

"Oh, just a line that spoke to me."

"I'd like to hear it, " he said, looking over his spectacles at her.

She shrugged, lifting the book so that she could read the passage without talking into her lap, " _Freedom so often means that one isn't needed anywhere_ ," she laughed, setting the book back down, "I can appreciate such a sentiment."

Charles smiled knowingly, "Well, I hate to spoil your fun, but you _are_ needed."

"Oh?"

"Well — _yes_. _Becky_ needs you. _Anna_ needs you — certainly now, with the baby*. _Mrs. Patmore_ needs you, " he chuckled, "If only to have someone to natter on about things with after church."

Elsie smirked, "It's altogether _different_ to be needed by those you love, rather than by those who _employ_ you, darling." she said, reaching up to take off her spectacles. She shook her hair out, blinking to let her eyes adjust as she looked up at him. "What about you? Do _you_ need me?"

He gazed softly at her a moment, then ran his thumb along the ball of her foot, massaging it gently. "Yes, I do. Very much."

She smiled, reaching over to cup his face in her hand. He leaned over, steadying his book against his lap, and kissed her softly. It was she who moved to deepen the kiss, nudging his lips apart with her tongue, her breath warm against them as she exhaled. He laughed, his baritone rolling through her. She pulled away, her eyes wide.

"Cedarwood. It's _got_ to be cedarwood," he said, pressing his nose against her hair. "There's definitely a — a more _robust_ scent there, under the verbena —"

She smiled, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him close. "Wrong again, darling. Beryl told you — you'll never guess."

" _Ye of little faith_ ," he scoffed, "I'll have you know that I can correctly identify over forty wines by scent or mouthfeel alone*."

"I know you can," she said, closing her book and putting it on the coffee table. "I'll caution you not to have a swig from the perfume bottle, though."

He gave her a look, then closed his book and set it on the coffee table next to hers. "I think I'll putter around in the yard for a bit. I had planned to rake but my knee's a bit sore. I do want to have a look and see what's begun to spring up."

"I think I'll join you," she said, pushing herself up from the settee, her hip cracking audibly.

"That sounded as if it hurt," he said, his brow furrowed deeply. She swatted her hand at him.

"Not at all, but it _sounds_ awful doesn't it?" she sighed, picking up her tea cup so that she could deposit it into the sink on their way to the backyard. "Getting old is a strange affair. Your body slows, your mind isn't is sharp —" she laughed, a bit ruefully, "Though I suppose men don't mourn the loss of their looks so much as women do."

"I don't know about that," Charles said, pulling on his muck boots, "I felt quite down when I noticed my hair was starting to go silver at the temples."

"Ha!" Elsie laughed, turning to him from the sink, "I bet I can _one-up_ you on that. When did you start to go gray?"

"Oh— I don't know, ten years ago, perhaps?" he said.

" _I_ found my first white hair when I was _twenty-five,_ " she said, her face contorted into faux horror, "I cried for a fortnight."

"But you've less gray hair than I do _now,_ " he said, "You don't dye it, do you? Like poor Mr. Molesley?"

"No," Elsie chuckled, "I suppose I just got lucky that it stopped about as soon as it started." She lifted a shawl from the back of one of the kitchen chairs and wrapped it around her shoulders. "My mam died without a _single_ gray hair on her head."

"Really?" Charles said, pushing himself up and reaching for his coat, "How old was she?"

"Old enough," Elsie said, "I guess I take after her that way."

Opening the back door and holding it open so that she could go out, he sighed. "I'd have liked to have met your mother. And I'd've especially liked for you to meet mine."

"The indelible _Catherine Caroline Carson*_? I'd have liked to have met her, though from what I've heard, she was _far more_ _a lady_ than a lady's _maid,_ so I can't imagine she'd have found me a suitable match for her only son — her only _progeny_ , in fact. I have this picture of her in my mind; a slightly less stately Dowager Countess."

Charles chuckled, reaching his hand behind him to take hers. "She was far more like the _Countess_ than the Dowager," he sighed, "Tall, dark, very beautiful — soft-spoken, but a force to be reckoned with when it was called for."

" _I_ may have called for it," Elsie said, "I can be a bit sharp-tongued, as you well know, and I imagine she'd have hoped you'd've — I don't know, _married up_?"

Charles paused, turning to face her. "Don't suppose what she'd have thought of you, Elsie. You didn't know her — and listen when I say that she would have _adored_ you. She would have found you to be hard-working, whip-smart, kind-hearted and, _yes,_ very pretty. She'd have been very pleased that you were my wife."

Elsie lowered her graze, dragging the tip of her boot through a small patch of dirt. "Even though we had no bairns? Would she have been disappointed that the Carson line ended _here_?"

Looking out across the yard, shielding his eyes from the sun which had moved to the low end of the sky, he shrugged, "I couldn't say for certain. I know that she was proud of my career in service. That she knew what it _meant._ That my devotion to the house, the devotion required to become butler, would mean sacrifice," he looked down at her, reaching his hand out to lift her chin gently. " _She_ wasn't willing to make that sacrifice — so _she_ never became housekeeper."

"Did she live to see you become butler at Downton?"

"No," he said quietly, "She died a few weeks before Christmas. I started as butler at the first of the year," he let his hand fall back against his side and turned away from her. "I don't know if I ever mentioned it, but —she had cancer."

Elsie stopped walking and he turned, blinking. She studied his face a moment and then it hit her, almost knocking the wind out of her as it squeezed her heart. Her hand flew to her chest.

"Oh, _Charles_ ," she said, reaching for his arm. "That's why — when I was —"

"Well, only _partially_ why. Of course I was worried about _you_ in earnest. But —" he reached up to ruffle his hair nervously, "— it certainly made me think of her. What it was like for her, toward the end," he sighed, covering her hand with his own, "I was so _relieved_ that you —" he stopped, his words hanging between them. He pet her hand gently, letting out a shuddering breath, tearing up at the memory. They walked slowly through their garden, the wind blowing across the yard and rustling the tall grass that lined its perimeter.

"I've always enjoyed the language of flowers," Elsie said, pausing in front of a patch of crocuses. "Not that I've had many occasions on which to wield a flower toward a suitor, proclaiming my heart with a bouquet; but I read about it often over the years, as I suppose a housekeeper in charge of floral arrangements is wont to do. . ."

" _There is a language, little known*, Lovers claim it as their own. Its symbols smile upon the land, Wrought by nature's wondrous hand; And in their silent beauty speak, Of life and joy, to those who seek For Love Divine and sunny hours. In the language of the flowers."_ Charles recited, kneeling down to inspect the tiny blossoms at their feet. "What do crocuses mean?"

Scootching down next to him, she thought a moment, "Youthful. . .happiness, I think. _Giddiness_." Raising her gaze, she yipped as she spotted a lone Daisy making it's way through the dirt and weeds, "Look!"

"Reminds me of a certain bookworm of an assistant cook," Charles said. "So, what do daisies represent?"

Elsie smirked, almost apologetically. " _Innocence_."

"How apt," he laughed, "Perhaps the girl's parents were amateur botanists."

"Might explain her penchant for the natural sciences."

Charles moved to stand, brushing dirt from his trousers. "You chose the flowers for your bouquet, when we were married?"

"Yes," she said slowly, reaching up to take his outstretched hand. He helped her to her feet and she smiled, shaking out her skirt. "I selected the flowers for all the arrangements."

"There was. . .forsythia?"

"Mhm— _Anticipation._ "

"And peonies, white heather. . ."

"Yes. _Happy marriage. Protection._ "

"Oh — and . . .there were a few tiny flowers, oranges and yellows — they looked like tiny suns, almost. Or stars. I hadn't the slightest idea what they were or wherever you'd found them."

Elsie pursed her lips, "Those were, indeed, special and required a bit of effort to obtain."

"Well?"

"You'll think it silly," she said, "A frivolous _whim_ , even." He eyed her, folding his arms stubbornly across his broad chest. She chuckled at his display of bravado. "Fine, you've twisted my arm! They're called strawflowers."

 _"And?"_

"And — what?"

"What's their meaning? Why did you choose them?"

She bit her lip, squinting up at him. The sun had come out from behind one of the large oak trees that lined their property. "They mean _agreement,_ " a small laugh escaped her, and she let her arms swing a bit as they walked back toward the house. "I recalled that evening, after the tutting about the War Memorial, when you said to me that you weren't comfortable _when we weren't in agreement._ I thought that rather sweet."

"I remember that evening," he said, looping his arm through hers as they made their way toward the back porch. "You _blushed._ "

"I _did_."

He chuckled, and she lay her head on his shoulder, their steps slowing as they listened to the din of their home. A bird chirped loudly in the tree above them and Elsie startled.

"She must have a nest," Charles said, peering up among the branches, "We've come too close and riled her up."

"She's riled _me_ up," Elsie laughed, "What kind of bird is she?"

Carson tilted his head to one side, studying the tree a moment, "I'm almost _positive_ it's a Jenny Wren, but they're hard to spot. They're tiny, brown — hide themselves well. Until they open their beaks and sing, that is."

"A wee bird with a big voice," she mused, edging up on her tiptoes to try to catch a glimpse. Something rustled behind them, and she turned, seeing the swishing of a white tail breezing through the tall grass. "Is that — Charles, is that _a cat?_ "

"Where?"

"There — in the puckerbrush," she said, taking a few steps away from him. She lowered herself, reaching a hand forward toward where the cat was now seated, licking its paw and observing her with a somewhat regal indifference.

"Beautiful coloring," Charles marveled, "Her eyes are almost emerald, and that shock of white fur!"

"She's doing a fine job keeping it tidy," Elsie laughed, gathering her skirts and kneeling into the dirt, her fingers waggling invitingly, " _Here kitty-kitty_ ,"

"I doubt that will entice her," Charles said, "You can't call a cat like you can a dog."

Elsie shot him a look, "I know a thing or two about cats." She turned back to the one that had paused its cleansing and was studying her curiously. "I myself possess many feline tendencies."

Charles hummed, "Yes— curling up in sunny spots for one."

She blushed; leaning forward on one hand to reach the cat's soft fur. It allowed her to pet it for a moment, then took a few hesitant steps toward her.

"Let's go in—if she follows you can put down a saucer of milk*."

Reluctantly, Elsie got up, keeping one eye on the cat as they made their way back to the house. They left the door ajar and began taking off their coats and shoes. As Elsie moved to drop her boots by the door, she heard the tiny patter of a creature's footfalls come up the steps.

"I'll be damned," Charles said, hanging up his coat. "Looks as though you've made a friend."

Unable to hide her excitement, Elsie mewled as she bent forward to pick up the cat, inspecting it closer. "It's a girl, I was right about that, " she said, scratching the cat's head. "She feels a bit undernourished to me," she whirled around, gesturing to him. "Do we have any bits of chicken about? From last night, maybe?"

"I'll check the icebox," he said, "Suppose she's a stray?"

"Either that or someone's not looking after her properly," Elsie said, resting her chin atop the cat's head. "I wonder if she's got kittens somewhere."

"We'll keep an eye out but —" he turned back to her, a bottle of milk in his hand, "You're not thinking of keeping her, are you?"

Elsie pouted, "Well, not _strictly_ but — if she's wandering around in our yard I don't see the harm in looking after her. Give her a little name."

"Oh dear," Charles laughed, "Well, I suppose there's no harm in that. But we can't claim her as our own. She can just be a visitor."

"Sure, darling." Elsie said, nuzzling her face against the cat's soft fur. "What about a name for you, sweetheart?"

"Um — for the milk, what shall I use for her to drink out of?" Charles asked, opening the cabinet and staring somewhat vacantly into it.

"Any of the smaller dishes—" she began, interrupted by the cat's rather loud meow. "Oh, well hello to you too," she laughed. "The, ah, the small dishes," another meow, and this time accompanied by a nuzzle returned at Elsie's neck. "Goodness," she said, running her hand along the cat's back. "There, next to the custard dishes—" another meow, and then a low, satisfied purr. Charles raised an eyebrow at her, trying to discern what _conversation_ had just happened between his wife and their furry house guest.

" _Dishes*_ ," Elsie whispered. The cat wiggled in her arms and she knelt and let go, watching it prance away toward Charles, where it began to weave herself through his legs.

"At least these aren't my _nice_ trousers," he sighed, taking a small bowl from the cabinet and uncapping the milk.

"I'm going to call her _Dishes_ ," Elsie said, sitting down at the table. Setting the bowl of milk down for the cat, who lapped it up eagerly, Charles stifled a laugh as he made his way across the kitchen, joining her at the table with a heavy sigh.

"Dishes?"

"Yes," Elsie said, " I know it's a bit odd, but. . .I think she likes it."

" _Dishes_ ," Charles said, "How cleverly … _domestic._ "

Elsie laughed, resting her chin in her hand as she watched the cat have her milk, her tail swishing calmly as she drank. "What time is it, darling?"

Charles leaned back in his chair, fumbling for his pocket watch. He squinted, "Half past four."

"Goodness," Elsie said, looking up. "The afternoon's flown by," she sighed, drumming her fingers against the table, "What do you think we should do for tea?"

Charles shrugged, rubbing his face as he yawned, "Had you something in mind?"

"I've some nice collard greens that Beryl sent home with us. I'd like to give those a go. And we've still got potatoes. She said they make a nice hash*."

"Suits me," Charles said, looking beneath the table to where the cat now sat at his feet.

"She rather likes you, Charles." Elsie said, peeking under the table.

"Did you name all the barn cats as well?" he asked, "When you were a girl. The ones you gave cow's milk to?"

"I didn't have a chance, Becky always got to them first. She had a way with animals. They were always immediately comfortable around her, even the horses. They never spooked when she was near," she laughed sweetly at the memory.

"I'm looking forward to meeting her," Charles said softly. "I know our seaside holiday is meant as more of a — well, celebration of our retirement. A long overdue honeymoon, maybe. But I am very much looking forward to spending time with her*."

Elsie smiled, her eyes soft. "She's very excited. I think she'll like you straight away."

"How do you figure?"

She glanced down at her hands, massaging her knuckles which always tended to painfully swell toward the end of the day. "Firstly, you're nothing _at all_ like our father."

Charles stiffened, "I am to suppose that he was unkind to her as well?"

"Most people were, Charles. They didn't understand."

"Just because you don't understand someone is no justification for cruelty,*" he said, reaching across the table to take her hand.

"That's a rather liberal stance for you, Charles Carson." she said, looking up at him slowly, "But I'm glad you take it." At their feet, Dishes mewled. Elsie chuckled, leaning over the side of the table. "See? She concurs."

Charles shook his head, smiling softly. "I think perhaps I'll have a lie down. Before you want to start dinner. Perhaps you'll join me?"

Elsie cocked her head slightly, " _A lie down?"_

He nodded, somewhat sheepishly, "I admit my — well, my knee is a bit —"

"Oh," she said quietly, "Yes, of course darling. I'll join you. Do you want me to fetch some of the salve from the medicine cabinet?"

He furrowed his brow as he stood, pausing slightly to meet her gaze. "What salve would that be?"

"The one I use for my hands?" she said, pushing her chair back, "You've not noticed?"

"I suppose not," he said, brushing past her into the hall, "Or — is it that wretched stuff you sometimes rub on before you come to bed?"

Elsie laughed, following him into the hall, "Yes, that would be it, I'm afraid. But it works wonders."

He sighed, pausing at their bedroom door. "If it helps the pain—and it won't put you off joining me—I suppose I can be persuaded to try it."

Smiling up at him, she rested her hands against his chest. "Go on and settle in. I'll fetch it."

He opened the door and they stepped inside. The room was warm and bright with the afternoon sun; almost a different room entirely from the one they woke in each day at dawn. Charles groaned as he sat on the bed, the mattress echoing him. Lifting his legs — mindful of his fussing knee — he settled in, his eyes fluttering closed. He heard her gently pull-to the washroom door and her light footfalls coming closer. She sat down on the bed, hardly making any noise at all, and began to wordlessly roll up the pant-leg of his trousers. As soon as she uncapped the salve, he could smell it: harsh menthol and something almost acidic. He wrinkled his nose and heard her laugh low in her throat. Her warm hands began to work his joints, her touch tender and familiar.

"Let me know if I'm hurting you," she whispered, kneading his knee gently.

"You're not," he said, "It's feeling better already."

She tutted softly, and he felt the cool, wet salve against his skin, being worked by her smooth hands, warming to her skin.

"Do your hands bother you often?" he asked, "You've not mentioned it."

"Well, there's nothing to be done but put some salve on and wait," she said.

"You could tell me, though. If they're bothering you."

"Even if there's nothing to be done about it?"

"Yes, perhaps _especially_ then," he said, his eyes opening to look at her. " _In sickness and in health?_ As the vows say?"

She smiled, lifting her hands from his skin and recapping the salve. "That they do."

"Even if there's nothing I can do, I can at leas _t know_. I worry when I don't know what's troubling you. And I worry even more that something's troubling you — and I don't know about it."

She bit her lip, reaching across the bedspread to take his hand. "You're a dear, sweet man Charles Carson."

"I feel unsteady when you're unsteady. Even if I don't know quite why, it's a little more than just . . . _disliking_ when we aren't in agreement," he said, reaching over to press his hand to her cheek. She reached up, clasping her fingers around his. "You're my still point in a turning world."

He held her gaze, encouraging her head toward him. She moved closer, sitting in the space made between his body and the edge of the bed. He smiled, stroking her earlobe with the tip of his finger as he pulled her closer, kissing her softly.

Hiking up her skirt*, Elsie pulled away, deftly throwing one leg across his body, settling herself atop him. He lifted his hands, letting them come to settle at her hips. Thankful they'd both changed after church, she began to unbutton her dress — and he watched with rapt attention as she shook it off her shoulders. It bunched at her waist and he lifted her slightly, pulling it out from under her. In just her shift, she leaned back so that he could unbutton his shirt, removing it and letting it fall to the floor; a heap of their garments piling up. She unbuckled his belt, the leather thwacking against her hand as she reached, pulling it through the belt loops. She lifted her weight from him so that he could shimmy them off, kicking them onto the floor.

"I'll mind that knee," she said, smoothing her hands across his chest as she arched her lower back, an anticipatory sigh escaping her. He gripped her tighter at the waist, then, after a moment, let one hand slip down to take hers. Pressing her fingers to her lips, he kissed them slowly, lingering at her knuckles. Her fingers twitched at the corner of his mouth and she smoothed them across the fullness of his bottom lip, lowering her head so that her mouth could follow the path they made.

He rested his chin in the crook of her shoulder and neck as he slipped his fingers under the waistband of her knickers, inched them down. She sat back, pulling them over her calves, letting them dangle a moment on her ankle before she kicked them off, giving him a toothy grin. Flustered and ready, he lowered his in one fell swoop, and before he had a chance to deposit them on the floor, she'd straddled him once more, her warm center teasing his upper thighs. He exhaled sharply, gripping her as she lifted her hips.

Lowering herself down, his grip on her tightened in response to her warmth, the way her body welcomed him; her softness embracing him. Finding a rhythm, she leaned forward, her breasts resting against his chest. His hands found her hair, smoothing down the nape of her neck, nails digging into her freckled shoulders.

"Cypress?" he breathed, pressing wet kisses against her neck.

"What?" she said, aware of her building pleasure.

"Is that the scent?"

She paused, her pelvis grinding to a halt. Resting hip bone to hip bone, she shifted to alleviate the discomfort, giving him an exasperated smile.

" _No_ ," she enunciated, pressing her hand to his mouth. She reached her other hand down to where they were joined, stroking herself gently to recapture what he'd interrupted. He blinked, his eyes darting between her fingers and her face, his eyes wide in astonished arousal. He wrapped his arms around her suddenly, with a hunger, and pulled her down against him, his hands pressing into the wing of her shoulder, the curve of her lower back. She nestled her face against the side of his, gently nibbling his earlobe. He groaned, thoroughly teased, and quite suddenly elected to give her bottom a rough slap.

She paused in her movements, hovering atop him, biting her lip to conceal her impish grin. "Did you just—?"

"I did," he whispered*, his eyes asking. Her smile settled him and he growled playfully as he grabbed her waist and turned her over onto her back. Above her now, he paused, marveling at how the weary afternoon light illuminated her eyes, which sparkled up at him with interred mischief and adoration. Though he wanted to push into her, return to that snug and supple place that welcomed him in with reverence and pleasure, he moved slowly. His movements orchestrated from kindness and what he'd learned of the softness of women, all the ways in which she was his paradox.

In waking life, in long dark hallways, she was commanding and everlasting, clad in black from the thread of her dress to the way her eyes stole light from a room; she was _armored_. But in this bed, with it's pale linens and sunlight, she was radiant and delicate.

He laid his hands on her fair skin in awe, the contrast of her sun-starved face against his coloring, her soft palms against his calloused hands. And in all the years he'd stood next to her, walked beside her, watched her work from across a room; he'd never realized how slight she was. Beneath him, cushioned by feather pillows and alighted by the day's final burst of sun, she was finespun and all effeminate tenderness.

He knew, now that they had been together in this way for some time, that while her body always surrounded him, rewarding him with pleasure as he filled her — it was not always the same for her to be in receipt of him*. He had considered this and been eager to learn, eager to amend; and she was thankful. As he pushed slowly into her, his body not asking for pleasure, but _permissio_ n, as he deepened his stroke he imagined all the ways in which he was a gentle giant cradling a diamond in his hand.

As they moved against one another, the amorous push-pull, they said all the things they could not say in those darkened hallways, in tiny rooms holding sherry glasses in low light; they said what there are no words for, only sounds of appreciation and pleasure.

Her body writhing beneath him, the deep sigh of a smile, all answers that have no question — until her breathing quickens and a rose-colored flush covers her chest, rises up her neck to fill her face — and he feels her throbbing around him, feels her nails against his back, her body proclaiming loudly when pleasure steals her voice. The pulsing warmth around him slows as his heartbeat quickens, a savage drumbeat against his ribcage, and he pushes into her faster — her knees falling open, _yes,_ her fingers twitching against his shoulder blades, _yes,_ a sharp intake of breath and her soft lilt in his ear as he buries his face in her neck _yes, my darling — yes._

His release is gracious; thankful. He had always felt a mark of shame for releasing into his own hand, a handkerchief, a whore; but _he will never take her, take this, for granted_ , he thinks, catching his breath as she lazily threads her fingers through his damp hair. Once he's caught his breath he rolls off her, kicking the blankets that have wound themselves around his legs to one side.

"A bit of a lie down _indeed_ ," he laughed, reaching down to take her hand. "I'll feel it in the morning, I'm afraid."

She hummed, blinking sleepily at him. "What it would _be_ to be _young_ again— _with you._ "

"Without the _symphony_ of creaking joints."

"Or the _landscape of wrinkle_ s."

He chuckled, lifting his arms so she could lay her head on his chest. "Or all those years of long, hard days where the only thoughts of bed I had were being rendered unconscious on its feather mattress."

She yawned against him, tracing lazy lines along his shoulder. "A few hours of blissful respite."

"It's all the more blissful with you," he said quietly; if voices could blush, his had've been scarlet.

"Except when I give you a swift kick in my sleep," she said, letting her eyes flutter closed.

"Even then," Charles said, pressing his lips against her hair, "I like being reminded of your presence. Even when it hurts*."

She turned her face to look up at him, "I never _mean_ to hurt you, of course."

"Oh, I know." he said, "What are you dreaming of — when your legs flail about like that? I've always wondered but never dared to wake you and ask."

She sighed, "I'm afraid I don't know. I never remember what I've dreamt. Maybe I'm back on the farm, breaking in a horse. . ."

"Or at Downton— breaking in a butler."

At this, she laughed deeply, naughtily, a small snort escaping her. She hiccuped, trying to staunch it, but when she felt him rumble beneath her, his own laughter welling up, she let it go and buried her face in his neck, the pillows softening her giggles.

"I laugh more with you than I've ever laughed with anyone in my life,*" Elsie said, trying to slow her breath, "Who'd've thought the butler and the housekeeper would grow old together, a couple of _gigglemugs_ —"

"With a cat named after _dinnerware_ —"

"Making _love_ in the middle of the afternoon—"

"Elsie?"

"Hm?" she said, her laughter finally subsiding somewhat as she nestled closer to him.

"I know you're comfortable but — my knee —"

She sat up, her hair falling into her eyes as she looked down at him. "Is it cramped?"

"It'll be fine, I just — I need to _adjust._ " he said, propping himself up on his elbows a moment, moving his old, lame leg to one side before sitting back against the pillows. He opened his arms to her then, and she crawled into them, settling into his lap.

"Is this alright?"

"Yes," he said, pushing a fallen tendril behind her ear. "I rather like this, actually. You know, if we sat like this we could _both_ read —"

"Mmm," Elsie said, pulling his arms more tightly around her middle. "We could even read the _same book._ Together."

"But you read faster than I do."

"I'd wait," she said, letting her head loll back against his shoulder, fitting just beneath his chin. He held her tightly, humming low a tune she didn't know — maybe he was just making it up as he went along. Outside, a bird cheeped in the tree by their window and Elsie laughed.

"Your _ladybird_ is jealous, Charles. You'd better sing to her."

"What shall I sing?"

"What were you humming a moment ago?"

"Oh, that new ditty of Charles Hart's*. I only heard the chorus but I've been hearing it in my head ever since."

"Go on, then. Serenade your little bird."

" _Are you lonesome tonight? Do you miss me tonight? Are you sorry we drifted apart? Does your memory stray to a brighter sunny day? When I kissed you and called you sweetheart?*"_

* * *

 _*_ I can't fucking fic Banna, like, post-series sans a Baby!Bates. I just cannot. Sorry if that doesn't float ya boat. Also, I don't think it would be completely out-of-canon for them to give Mrs Hughes' name to a baby girl if they had one. What other lady names do they know — **Vera**? _Uh uh hunty_ , _that ain't happenin'!_

 _*_ TBH Carson the Wino could probably identify twice that number in his youth but you lose your sense of smell as you age #sadface

* Wouldn't it be great if they called her C.C. ? Or nah . . .too many _Nanny_ references in my life.

* The Language of Flowers is one of my favorite things _ever_ and it was actually a hUuuuUuuge fucking deal for Victorians. It might have been a little antiquated by 1927-ish, but they'd certainly remember it fondly and still have the little rhyme in their heads. Charles thinking he can't learn hymns, hardy-har-har, look at 'im go!

* Don't actually do this IRL, it's not good for them. But this is fiction, so we can give fictional cats fictional (presumably raw?) milk.

* **True fucking story** : the only thing my stupid miserable ex-fiance left me with was the idea that the sweetest name for a cat would be Dishes. I don't know why or how he came up with it, but one night we were having dinner and he just proclaimed it out of nowhere. We couldn't have a cat because I'm quite seriously allergic (like suffocating where's-my-oxygen-allergic) so we never realized this dream. But I thought it would be cute since it's so DOMESTIC and LIKE they were DOMESTIC STAFF and now they HAVE ACQUIRED A SMALL CAT and they COULD NAME IT AFTER A HOUSEHOLD OBJECT.

* It sure as hell does and _next_ chapter you get to watch (read?) her _make it._

* If you wanna read a great meeting-Becky fic, might I suggest olehistorian's _Becky?_ :)

* As Steph pointed out when she beta'd this — this isn't necessarily in line with how we know Carson has treated, say, THOMAS — but I would hope that as he gets older, time marches on, with Elsie, he softens a bit. Becomes more tolerant. I recognize that plenty of us have "that racist grandma" that just never, ever evolved their beliefs but I don't want to believe Carson would fall into that camp.

* That point in the beta where Steph said something to the effect of _"ohhhhh here we go!"_

 _* Speaking from experience,_ he's probably just as surprised as she is. Sometimes these things happen and you're just like: **wut** and your partner's like: **wut** but you just go with it. That's the totally imperfect non-romantic side to sex that we probably don't get to see in films or read in books enough. Sex is, actually, quite a messy, rather noisy affair. And you'll enjoy it a lot more if you can laugh at some of the absurdities of it. :)

* I think he _would_ understand this because his entire career was about anticipating people's needs. From an intellectual perspective, Charles Carson would be a great lover: he's eager to learn, he learns rules and preferences with ease, he's diligent and practiced and he's a deeply kind man. Now, if this was 21 year old horny Charles Carson the footman we'd probably have a v-e-r-y different story here. *scribbles note to write dat fic* _*scratches it out, I ain't got time for that* *scribbles sad face*_

* Ain't that the fuckin' truth. #slowburn # _MoreLikeAFireFellowesKeptPissingOnFor3Seasons_

* I desperately want to believe this would be true. I feel like these two have #seensomeshit and by God, I just want them to curl up together in their little cottage and laugh about the world beyond their window.

* Bro wrote all kinds of good shit.

* Including THIS SONG THAT NO ELVIS PRESLEY DID NOT WRITE BUT HE DID MAKE IT POPULAR.


	5. Last Light and Love

The pink light of dusk hovered over their backyard, and from the window above the kitchen sink Elsie watched the freshly blossomed trees sway in a gentle wind. The day was winding down; not that it had ever winded up, particularly. Their lives were much quieter. Not to say they had less engagements: they both were on committees in the village, he refereed cricket matches whenever possible, and they still made weekly trips to Downton ( _at the very least_ ) just to say hello. But their lives lacked an urgency, and there was a forgiveness in their days. Each hour an allowance, each moment entirely theirs; and while, at first, the freedom had given them both boundless anxiety, they had settled into it. They had learned how to slacken the restraints of a life in service and discovered the absolute pleasure that existed in doing nothing— _together._ She threaded apart the collard greens, listening for the pot of water she'd set on the stove to boil. She didn't hear his footfalls but still sensed him in the room; a hum always existed now, intensified whenever he was near. He wrapped his arms around her waist, stooping enough to settle his chin against her shoulder. She curved against his touch, still sensitive from their amorous afternoon.

She could feel the soft, warmth of him against her back and knew that he, too, must have elected to change into very simple attire. Gone were the days of dressing for dinner and they'd both had to acquire a more comfortable wardrobe in retirement. He'd purchased a few pairs of wool trousers, gone to the tailor about a few shirts that he'd spruce up to wear about the house or the yard. She'd found some patterns for a few dresses, more of the latest style: slightly higher hemlines than she was used to, but comfortable. She'd forgone her corset as soon as she'd stopped working and even Charles' had to admit her color was better; cheeks rosier, eyes brighter. He supposed it was because she could _breathe_ , but she knew it was at least in part because she was quite simply, _happy._

He lingered a moment, then kissed her cheek before pulling away enough to shift to her side, his hand lingering at the small of her back.

"Anything I can do to help?"

Elsie curved her lips upward thoughtfully, "Well — I need a bowl of ice."

"Ice?"

"Mhm. For these greens."

Charles furrowed his brow, not understanding but taking her word for it. Reluctant to leave her side, his hand lingered on her until the last possible moment as he slipped away to the icebox.

"Have you always been such a capable cook?" he called back to her, "Or are you an even quicker study than you led me to believe?"

She smiled, her back to him, her eyes rolling slightly. "I was never _useless_ in the kitchen, but I did have to read a few cookery books once we left Downton."

"I suppose Mrs. Patmore's knowledge has been invaluable.," he said, coming back into the room, a pail of ice in hand.

She turned, did a slight double take, and then laughed. "Darling that's _far_ more ice than I need."

Charles hovered a moment, then shrugged, "Well . . .whatever you don't use will melt, yes?"

She grinned, "Yes, you're right. Put it into one of those mixing bowls, if you would please?"

He nodded, setting the pail on the counter with a thud. "Just a bowlful?"

"Yes — even just _half_ a bowl, really."

"Alright, then," Charles said, dipping his hand into the bucket. He hissed as the ice made contact with his skin. She chuckled, biting her lip to prevent herself from emitting a full-blown laugh. "What?"

She sighed, shaking her head. "Oh — I just love you. That's all," she said, turning slightly, and looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes.

"I love you too, Elsie,." he said, "Why else would I be standing here with my hands in a bucket of ice?"

At this, she _did_ laugh, and the sound of her own laughter only stood to widen her smile. It made him smile too, and he chuckled as he dropped a few more pieces of ice into the bowl, then dried his hands on a dishtowel.

"Now, what's the ice _for_?"

"After I blanch the greens, you put it into some ice water."

"Yes — but w _hy_?"

Elsie shrugged, "Because that's how Beryl taught me."

"Reason enough," Charles said, leaning against the counter, watching as she lifted the greens from the steaming pot and deposited them into the dish of ice water.

"These will need to simmer for an hour or so, and the potatoes are getting tender in that pot there," she said, nodding toward the stove. "I thought we could listen to our new record player."

"Oh _no,_ Elsie not that _wretched_ thing."

"You survived the wireless, now you'll survive this," she said, bumping him with her hip as she reached past him for a dish towel, throwing it over her shoulder. "It was very thoughtful of Tom and Sybbie to send us that record, after all. I'd like to listen to it."

"Those records are not music, it's that — that insufferable _jazz_ noise that Lady Rose would listen to."

"Have you ever actually listened to it, Charles?" Elsie said, putting a hand on her hip as she jutted it out in emphasis, "You forget that I know about your _Cheerful Charlie_ days. Don't try to convince me that when you hear a song with a bit of'a beat, your toes don't start tapping — because I am _most_ certain they do."

"Maybe they did _once,_ but I've since reformed."

"Well, it's not strictly jazz — Mr. Branson said it's from a show that was on Broadway. Starring a Miss Gertrude Lawrence."

"Well, I've never heard of her but if it's _showtunes . . ._ "

"Oh, _Charles._ "

"I was only implying that it could still, perhaps, have certain — _overtones._ "

"And I suppose _you_ didn't have any _overtones_ this afternoon when you invited me to join you for a _lie down_?" she said, wagging her hips as she moved away from him across the kitchen.

"Elsie Hughes Carson when did you become such a _vamp!_ " Charles laughed, sitting down at the table, making rather a show of lowering his head exhaustedly into his hands. "Did I marry a housekeeper or a chorus girl?"

With a bit of a flourish, she turned, heading back to the stove with a bit of a shimmy in her step. "I was a fine reeler in my day, Charles Carson. Had I gone another way, I may have wound up on that stage right alongside you."

"You'd have despised it," he said levelly, "The dressing rooms were always in a tip."

"Well, if I'd've been a dancer that'd've been nothing for me to worry about now would it have been, darling?" she said, lifting the lid of the pot and inspecting the greens. "Maybe we could have had a duo."

"Oh, _Elsie —"_

"Cheerful Charlie Carson, there we are — you could sing and do your juggling act —"

"How did you know—?"

"Lucky guess," she said, winking at him. "I could dance, perform Robert Burns' poems— _Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!_ "

"I'm sure that was wonderful, lamb — but I haven't the _slightest_ idea what you said."

Turning down the stove, Elsie paused, letting her hand hover above its warmth. "What was that you said just now?" she said, turning to look over her shoulder at him.

"That I don't know what you said — it was Gaelic, yes?"

"No, _before_ that," she said, turning so that she could lean against the counter. "Did you call me _lamb?_ "

Charles blinked, "Did— _did I_?"

Elsie smiled, "I think you did and I just — it was very sweet. I was just wondering where it came from." she shrugged, reaching up to massage the back of her neck, which had begun to ache.

"I suppose I just — perhaps I've been thinking about _young_ Elsie Hughes today. Milking cows, barn dances, dragging her father out of pubs. . ." he lowered his gaze, "Maybe that's where it came from. I hope it didn't offend you in some way. . ."

"No, no, I'm not offended at all. It sort of made me feel . . .a bit _special._ Maybe it sounds silly."

"Not silly," Charles said, "I rather like it when you call me _darling_."

"I _like_ calling you darling."

They smiled at one another a moment, and Elsie turned, hearing the pot on the stove begin to bubble up against the lid, threatening to boil over. Charles watched as she grabbed the dishrag from her shoulder and lifted the lid with one hand as she reached for a wooden spoon with the other, her foot coming off the floor a half inch or so as she extended her arm the length of the counter.

"I was also remembering. . . the first time I ever laid eyes on you," he said, his chair squeaking at the hinges as he leaned back, resting his hands on his middle. She looked over her shoulder at him, raising an eyebrow.

" _Oh_?"

"Mhm," he hummed, a small chuckle escaping him, "You came just before the family left for the season, in order that you would have the summer to get your bearings. I remember that it had been a very rainy spring — you must have shown up around May Day, because there were still flowers and ribbons in the halls from the May poles. It had been a very wet, muddy spring — as I said — and it was an absolute _downpour_ the day you arrived. . ."

"Aye, I remember it quite well," Elsie said, licking a drip of butter from the side of her hand.

"I was doing my morning rounds and I happened to see you trudging up the drive," he pursed his lips, choosing his words carefully, "You were, ah, a bit _damp_."

" _A bit bloody damp,_ " Elsie laughed, scooping a heap of potatoes into the hot skillet, which sizzled with butter beside her, "If I'd'a turned my head up, I'd've drowned."

"I admit, I scurried downstairs to greet you in large part because I was concerned you would track in _mud_ and go dripping all over the place —"

"Did you expect me to come in and shake off like a wet dog?" she said, jutting her hip out and popping a hand onto it, wagging at him with a wooden spoon held in the other, "I've'a _bit_ more decorum than that."

"Well, I didn't know you then! You could have been some . . _.highlander ruffian_ for all I knew!"

She shook her head gently, turning back to the skillet, "So, you saw me come up the drive sopping wet and worried I'd muck up the place. . ."

"Yes," he said, "But — I came down the hallway—"

"Primed to give me a proper dressing down before you'd so much as introduced yourself, I reckon—"

"I have a _bit_ more gentility than that," he said, feigning hurt, "Are you going to let me tell this story or not?"

She laughed, biting her lip, "I'm sorry darling, go ahead."

" _So,_ " he said, smoothing his hands over his shirt, "I came down the hall into the kitchen and . . .well, there you were, standing there, dripping wet, and I could tell that you were trying not to shiver— though it was at the turn of spring it was hardly warm weather. You must have been chilled to the bone," he sighed, "And you had — well, you had taken off your hat and were struggling to remove your hat pins, which had become tangled in your hair which — I suppose — must have curled from the humidity and the rain—"

" _As it's wont to do_ —"

"When you saw me, you looked up and —" he smiled, blushing a little, "You stuck your hand out, drips and all, and said, " _Hello, I'm Elsie Hughes._ " and I . . .well, I was a bit taken aback."

"Didn't want me to soil your livery, I'd imagine," Elsie said, turning the stove back.

"Well, perhaps but I mean to say — I suppose I can say so now, we're married —"

Elsie turned, her mouth turned up in an impish little grin, "Say _what now,_ Mr. Carson?"

"That. . .that I thought you were _very_ pretty. Even pelted with half an ocean's worth of water. And. . .well, all I could think to say was, " _You'll have to get used to the English rain_ ," and you said. . .you looked up at me and your eyes were sparkling blue, little droplets of water on your eyelashes. . .and you were flushed from the cold, I think, and you smiled. _You smiled_ and you said, " _I don't mind the rain, it makes the world so lush_." — and the way your accent curled over those words sent a shiver down my spine that has never left me."

She stood motionless at the stove and he worried his brow, wondering if he'd insulted her in some way. He waited, bracing his hand against he table so he could stand if necessary, if he had something to amend. After a moment more, when she didn't so much as appear to breath, he leaned forward, calling her name gently, "Elsie — ?"

She turned slowly, reaching up to wipe her eyes, "Sorry, love I just — I didn't want you to think me a _sentimental old fool—_ "

He smiled, exhaling sharply with relief, "Oh — oh, _good,_ well, I thought I'd said something to upset you — and it's a charming memory, really, I just —"

" _Charles_ ," she said, her voice caught. Clearing her throat, she turned back to the counter long enough to deposit the dishrag and she took a few steps toward him, reaching her hands out in front of her so that he could take them, "Thank you for telling me, for reminding me," she stood above him for a moment, and behind her, the sun had all but set along the ends of their property, casting darkness over their lot. The kitchen was warmly lit and warm in air from the stove, and her hands in his. He gently tugged at her hands until she tentatively lowered herself onto his lap. Wrapping her arms around her waist, he lay his head against her chest and gave her a little squeeze.

"I was thinking that . . .that moment was the beginning but you were—what, forty when you came to Downton? There were _decades_ of your life that had nothing at all to do with me, and that I certainly wasn't privy to. As little as I knew about your past I did find myself, over the years, becoming more and more interested in your _future_. Particularly as it pertained to Downton and. . ." he laughed, turning his head to kiss her cheek, ". . . _to me._ "

"So, you weren't having sherry in your pantry with all the other housekeepers, then?"

He chuckled, pressing his face against her neck, "Only you."

"Well," she breathed, "I suppose that's a good thing—"

"Hm?"

"Look what it lead to."

* * *

Charles closed his book, setting it on the small table next to his chair in their sitting room. He stood, reaching for his cup and saucer, and finished off the last of his tea as he made his way through their darkened cottage to the kitchen. Elsie had already gone to bed but he tended to linger, old habits of making his nightly rounds having died hard. It took significantly less time to walk through their tiny cottage as opposed to sprawling Downton. He moved soundlessly through each room, checking that the doors were locked, that the dinner dishes had been put away, the floors swept up. He returned to the parlor and tidied up, folding up the afghan she'd been curled up in as they read for an hour or so before she'd headed up. He paused a moment before he set it down, lifting it to his nose. He loved how her scent lingered on everything; their linens, hanging in the air after she'd walked by him. Still, for the life of him, he couldn't seem to name the mysterious scent. It was familiar to him in some way, but he couldn't tell if it was familiar because _she_ had become so familiar to him, or, if it was the smell of some other memory. Shrugging, he laid the afghan down on the settee and turned off the lamp.

The hall clock struck ten, the sound of its mournful chime the only sound in the house as he paused to turn off the last of the lamps that lit the long hallway to their bedroom. He paused a moment outside the door, running through his mental checklist. Satisfied he'd not forgotten anything, he pushed the door open softly, stepping into the moonlit room. He undressed quietly, knowing she was a light sleeper. He'd never been certain if she always had been _(a frightened farmer's daughter listening for drunken footsteps in the night?)_ or if it had been an acquired skill of presiding over a large house; much as it had been for him. Learning to sleep with one eye open, as it was. He brushed his teeth and washed his face without turning on the lamp in the bathroom, occasionally looking over his shoulder to where she slept. When he'd readied for bed, he moved as quietly as he could across the groaning floorboards, settling onto the bed next to her, the sheets rustling against him as he slid in. She slept curled onto her side, facing the window, and as he pressed himself against her back he felt the delightful heat of slumber that radiated from her body. He wrapped his arms around her waist and felt her settle into his arms, a sleepy sigh escaping her. He rested his chin in the crook of her neck and shoulder, his hands settling against her middle, pushing up her nightgown so that he might warm his hands against her soft belly. He could feel the rise and fall of her breath against his hands, the breathy rasp of her light snores, and he wondered if during the many nights she slept like alone, if she'd ever dreamt of this. He had, and while they caught him by surprise, waking him with sweaty palms that had imagined her skin, conjured up a false memory of her, there was always a hope in them. Perhaps they were a premonition rather than a dream.

She stirred, rolling over in his arms so that she was on her back. He held her, looking down and watching her face, held in the wrinkleless repose of sleep, in the milky light of the night. Her lips parted slightly and he wanted to lean down, tenderly kiss them, but what if he woke her? Instead, he lowered his head against the pillow, pressing his forehead against the softness of her hair just above her ear. After a quiet moment, he felt her hand smoothing the length of his forearm where it draped across her body. Eyes fluttering open he blinked at her in the darkness.

"I'm sorry, I tried not to wake you. . ." he whispered.

"I always wake up when you come to bed," she yawned.

"Oh," he started, his eyes apologetic. But she laughed.

"No, no, it's _lovely_ ," she said, "Waking up to something better than a dream."

He smiled, leaning down to kiss her softly. She hummed happily against his mouth, moving to deepen the kiss, but he lifted his head suddenly, slapping his hand against the bedsheets.

"Oh, I _can't believe_ it took me all day," he laughed, "But I've got it."

Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open in a stunned grin, "What —?"

"It's _heliotrope,_ " he said, somewhat in disbelief, "I can't _believe_ I couldn't figure it out —"

She laughed, her throaty trill echoing in the stillness.

"Don't laugh at me, darling, it's not good for my now _thoroughly_ bruised ego," he chuckled, pulling her onto his chest. She sighed, her laughter subsiding, as she rested her head against his chest. He traced lazy, soothing circles along her back with his fingers, and after a moment, the air in the room grew heavy. He felt her tense against him before she spoke.

"He _did_ hit us," she mumbled, her voice caught against the fabric of his pajamas, "My father, I mean. You asked me about it this morning. When we were making breakfast."

Charles exhaled, but didn't speak. He waited.

"When I first met you, I was a bit. . . _startled_ by you. This tall, booming _bear_ of a man. I thought. . .I thought perhaps, if you were ever cross enough, you could _greatly_ injure a person. My father wasn't a large man by _any_ means, but he could pack a wallop when he'd been into the drink. So, being confronted with you when I arrived at Downton that day. . . _goodness_. I rather made a point of it not to get on your bad side. But then . . .as the years got on and I came to _know_ you, I realized that you would never hurt _anyone_ , not if you could help it. You were a gentle, kind man beneath that loud, commanding authority. And that was something my father never understood. Something _I_ never understood could define a man." she paused, turning her face up to him, "That a man can be powerful without being cruel. And I don't know, maybe you knew for a long time how you felt about _me_ — but when I realized that you were . . . you were the kind of man my father only wished he could've been . . . that's when I knew." she lowered her head back down, laughing sadly, "So, not so romantic as you seeing me for the first time, sopping wet, little slip of a lass, but . . ."

He was quiet, his breath having nearly halted beneath her. She lifted herself, steadying herself against the bed, tilting her head to look down at him. Then, in the faint light, she saw that he'd begun to quietly cry.

"Oh, _Charles_ —" she said, "I didn't mean to upset you,"

He hushed her, reaching a hand up to cup her cheek, "You've not upset me," he said, struggling to steady his voice, "Thank you for telling me that. I . . .I want you to do that, you know. Tell me what you think, what you feel . . .what you _believe_. I want to know these things and. . .when I think about how we've only just started, now, _at our age_ — what if — what if there isn't enough _time_? What if . . .what if one of us dies before we get to learn all that there is to know about each other?"

She shook her head slowly, pressing her forehead against his, "Darling, as much as I know you'd like to try, you can't live life in a day," she said, "All that really matters in the end is that . . . _the woman you love loves you_. And that when our time comes, you won't likely remember whether or not my perfume smelled of spring or what we called the cat that slept in our garden. . .the only thing that you must know, and that you must never _forget_ —is that I love you."

He smiled, "Where words fail, poetry speaks: " _What are heavy? sea-sand and sorrow. What are brief? today and tomorrow. What are frail? spring blossoms and youth. What are deep? the ocean and truth,"_ he kissed her soundly, mumbling against her lips an _I love you_ that she swallowed down, thumping inside her like a second heartbeat. She felt it spread warmly through her middle and she let it lay there to live — and to grow.


End file.
